


a bailar

by pellucid



Category: Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2014-02-25
Packaged: 2018-01-13 19:23:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1238086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pellucid/pseuds/pellucid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's all wrapped around him in a bar in the desert, dancing with him to music he doesn't understand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a bailar

**Author's Note:**

> Sarah and James, dancing in the desert. Somehow some version of this--literal or metaphorical--always factors into what I imagine happened next.
> 
> Birthday fic for Chaila, written October 2009.

They're out in the ass-end of nowhere, out Highway 94 toward Tecate, then off onto a battered, no-name road, barely paved and not quite two lanes, then onto a dusty, ragged path carved out of the brush. James prays nothing happens to Sarah because he'd never find his way back out of this without her. 

"You do know where you're going, right?" he asks skeptically, as another dirt road appears perpendicular to the one they're on, and Sarah turns right.

She rolls her eyes. "I don't know why I brought you," she mutters under her breath, more to herself than to him.

At the end of the road is a smattering of buildings: a couple of houses, an ancient gas station, the sign above its one pump reading "no hay gasolina," and a bar. He watches her do a full assessment of the area as she climbs out of the truck, her right hand hovering near the gun he knows she has at her back. 

There are a couple dozen people in the bar, and James wonders how they knew to come out of the desert to this place in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon. Conversation lulls as they walk in, and James feels every eye on them as the pool game stops and even the couple dancing near the juke box pauses. Sarah manages to look both purposeful and nonchalant, like she belongs in a place like this. 

"Have a seat," she whispers to him, pointing out a table with her eyes. "I'll be right back. Don't get into trouble." He can't tell if she's joking.

He watches her have a brief conversation, in Spanish, with the bartender, and then return with two bottles of Bud. She's irritated about something, and James is secretly pleased that he can tell. Someone who didn't know her would see only her carefully neutral expression, but somewhere in the last three weeks he's learned to read the set of her mouth and the way her nose flares slightly when she's angry. 

"Arturo's running late," she says quietly. "It'll be another hour until he's here with the papers." She sighs and takes a swallow of beer. "Try not to draw too much attention while we wait."

"Little late for that, don't you think?" James replies, casting a glance around the bar. Conversations and the pool game have resumed. Someone fed a few more quarters into the juke box, and there are now two more couples dancing. But he still feels conspicuous, like every eye in the place is half-trained on them. 

"Drink your beer," Sarah answers. "And try not to look so much like a goddamned cop. You're making people nervous."

It's been three weeks since the explosion at ZeiraCorp, since Catherine Weaver and John Connor disappeared in front of his eyes to God knows where ("when," he hears Sarah correct in his head), since he's been playing nice to the police and getting custody of Savannah by day while hiding Sarah in his basement and plotting to go off the grid by night. Soon they'll have several sets of false papers, and tonight they run. Not a moment too soon, either. Some aunt of Lachlan Weaver's is en route from Scotland to challenge the clause in Catherine's will that left Savannah to James.

"That's just as well," Sarah had said when she heard. "People will think you disappeared because of the custody thing. They won't suspect it has anything to do with me."

"Wouldn't she be better off growing up off in Dundee with great-aunt Isobel?" he'd argued. "Rather than on the run, living under constant threat? She could have a normal childhood. I don't like to think of you indoctrinating her with fear of the machines, teaching her only how to run and fight."

It had been a low blow, he knew, and Sarah had flinched, visibly. But she'd held her ground. "The T-1001 wanted you to keep her for a reason. She'll be safer with us. In Scotland she'd just be a target, and she'd put everyone else there in danger, as well."

So they sit in a bar in the desert while Savannah is at school for the last time, putting the last pieces in place before they run. Sarah's worried they'll be too conspicuous to hide well—a black man and a white woman and a striking child who looks nothing like either of them—but neither of them will leave Savannah to the other. Regardless, James won't leave Sarah, though he hasn't told her this and doesn't plan to. But if there were ever a time he could walk away from her, it's long past.

"You've got to get better at this," Sarah grumbles at him. "Be alert but don't look alert. Try to look bored. Pick at your beer label or something."

He sighs and runs his thumb across the tattered corner of the label. It's crumbling with the condensation. He's never been a very good actor. He takes another drink.

"Come on," she says after a few more minutes, and he can't hide his surprise when she takes his hand. "Dance with me." She gives his arm a sharp tug as she stands.

"What?" he whispers in disbelief.

"For fuck's sake," she hisses, flashing him a smile that is all insincere acting, "would you stop causing a scene? You can't seem to drink inconspicuously, so we're going to try dancing instead." She steps in close, her breath hot on his ear. "Just relax."

Some Mexican ballad is playing on the juke box, and James forces himself to imitate the other dancing couples, wrapping his arms around Sarah and starting to sway to the music. She tucks her head into his neck and pulls her body flush up against him, her right hand taking his left and twining their fingers together. He knows she doesn't mean it, that it's all for show, but he relaxes anyway. He loses his self-consciousness, lets the bar drop away, and breathes in the scent of her shampoo.

The first night after everything went to hell, she'd let him hold her. He'd packed her in the trunk of his car with the girl machine's body and the heart of the John Henry computer, picked up Savannah, and brought them both home with him. Savannah was confused but obedient. Sarah was simply blank. He couldn't get her to eat, or shower, or even respond to his questions. After Savannah was asleep, he sat with Sarah long into the night, each of them on opposite ends of his couch, not talking.

"What do we do now?" he'd finally asked. They'd been silent for hours, and his own voice sounded unfamiliar in the dark.

She didn't answer, but she started to shake. He thought she was crying, but there were no tears and no sound, and tentatively he moved to her end of the couch, tried a hand on her arm. When she didn't pull away he moved his arm around her shoulders and then pulled her in against his chest. Her hands fisted up in his shirt.

"Can we wait until tomorrow to make plans?" she'd whispered against his neck. Her voice was rough and painful. "I have the most terrifying sense of—" she took a shuddering breath—"of freedom." He felt her grip his shirt even tighter. "I don't know what to do."

He'd held on and whispered soothing nonsense into her hair until they'd both fallen asleep. The next morning, he woke on the couch alone and found Sarah in the basement staring at the machines and making plans. She was focused and driven, and in the subsequent three weeks, hasn't touched him once.

Until now, and she's all wrapped around him in a bar in the desert, dancing with him to music he doesn't understand. Her body is warm against his, and the tension in her back relaxes, just a little, under his hands. He feels a vibration in her chest and realizes she's humming along quietly to the song. He closes his eyes for a moment and lets himself think about how well she _fits_.

Sarah lifts her head a little so her mouth is near his ear. "You're doing a good job blending in and not such a good job paying attention while doing so," she murmurs. "You never did any undercover work back in your FBI days, did you?"

He laughs a little. "Am I really that bad?"

"Yes." Her mouth is so close to his skin that he can feel her brief smile. "But we'll work on it." The song is winding down, and Sarah slows their bodies with it. "Arturo has come in. Don't look but he's by the back door. When the song finishes, I'll meet him. You go back to the table and finish your beer. Act like I've just gone to the bathroom—no big deal. If I'm gone more than five minutes, follow, but don't draw attention."

James does as she asks, and he thinks he must be getting a little better at being inconspicuous when no one in the bar seems to notice them anymore. He returns to their table and takes a sip of his beer, counting silently in his head. He at least knows better than to look at his watch. He casts his eyes around the bar and imagines instead the neat corridors of the FBI's Los Angeles field office. He thinks about being comfortable in that world once, before he'd ever heard the name "Sarah Connor." She's drawn him out of that world over the past years, to the point where he'd be no more comfortable there than he is here in this desert watering hole. He's not sure he'll ever be comfortable anywhere again, but he is sure his only chance of it is with Sarah. He picks at the label on the now empty beer bottle. He's an optimist, and he smiles a little as her words come back to him: we'll work on it.

She comes back after two minutes and twenty-three seconds, and this time when she puts a hand on his shoulder, it feels less like she's acting. "All done," she says. "Ready to get going?"

"Sure thing," he answers, getting up and following her out into the afternoon sun.


End file.
